The scrutiny of a Man once brave
by if-llamas-could-fly
Summary: Dean breaks down. Ben observes.


**A/N Hey guys! I've been crazy busy with studying, and I'm currently in the middle of a barrage of tests, but I finally finished writing a crazy long psych paper, and I decided to celebrate by writing a one-shot. I have ****_no idea_**** where this came from. All I know is that I decided to sit down and write a Ben POV in one go. Because apparently I enjoy torturing myself with challenging fanfiction ideas instead of studying French. I'm not a smart person. Anyway, enjoy! :)** _~Sammy_

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><p><strong><em><span>The scrutiny of a Man once broken<span>_**

The first time he saw him, he'd been an ass-kicking monster-killing superhero. Mom kept saying he was bad news, but he wasn't an idiot. He could see the way she had smiled at him when he'd showed up that first time; the way she still smiles at him, even though he's not smiling back anymore.

(_Mom had pulled him aside and begged him not to say a word to Dean. _

_"He's hurting. Be careful, okay? And whatever you do, don't mention Sam"_

_"What? Why not? Where is he anyway, I thought-"_

_"Ben. Just, don't."_)

He wonders when Dean broke.

He's noticed it, even if he doesn't say anything.

He noticed how Dean kept 'spilling' the salt and insisting mom use the silver knives and forks at the dinner table for the first few months. He pretended not to be scared by it, just like he pretended to not see the way Dean would reach for the gun he still tucked away in his waistband whenever an owl hooted a bit too loud. He'd almost asked, once, but the look in Dean's eyes shut him up- haunted and lost, like a man who'd been stranded on an island too long.

He's noticed how Dean still doesn't even sleep through the night, he can hear him shouting '_no!_' in the middle of the night, can hear him as he creeps down the stairs in almost complete silence except for that one step that always creaks, can hear him slip out of the house and close the door behind him with a quiet _snick_. He'd been convinced that Dean would take off again, the first few times it happened. He snuck out behind him once, joining him on the front steps, shivering in the cold air. Dean had looked at him, and he'd been sure he'd be sent back to bed, but Dean had just shaken his head and mumbled something that sounded like, "_Even when you're gone, I've still gotta do the whole chick-flick thing, huh?_" He ignored that, just like he ignored the way Dean's eyes were suspiciously wet, and the way he shifted just a bit closer to him. It was better than being yelled at, after all. They watched the empty road for a while before Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him back to bed, tucking him in- and he let him, even though it had been years since he'd outgrown that- and he sat down on the bed next to him, running a hand through his hair in a way that felt strangely practiced, and oddly comforting.

He's noticed the way Dean keeps pulling out an old cell phone that he doesn't give anyone the number to and listens to the messages he's gotten before deleting them without a thought. He'd asked Dean once why he never called back, and he'd gotten a bewildered look and a "_I needed to leave that life. I promised I'd leave that life._" He didn't ask again, but he keeps a watch out for the times when 'Bobby' calls. He likes to think that one day he'll convince Dean to call back.

He's noticed the way Dean sometimes sits for hours in the garage, staring at the car he kept hidden under a tarp. It's a gorgeous car, that, he knows. He'd seen it, back when it was what he's begun to call The First Time I Met Dean, and he saw it again when Dean showed up and never left. The car never left either. It just sat underneath that tarp, gleaming black and chrome paint and wheels that looked like they craved the open road, all wrapped up and shoved in the garage, like a piece of trash that nobody could be bothered to throw away. Except, it _isn't_ a piece of trash. He can see that from the look in Dean's eyes when he sits in the garage, staring at the car like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. (Sometimes he looks at his mom and him like that too, but he thinks the car matters just a little bit more for Dean. He doesn't mind.)

He's noticed that the necklace- that had been swinging around Dean's neck like it had never known the meaning of being removed- was gone, and he couldn't help but think that Dean looked a little less complete without it. He thinks he might have stared at the spot on Dean's chest that was conspicuously empty for too long, because Dean had sworn up a storm and run off to the garage, ripping the tarp off the car and digging through an old worn duffle bag like his life depended on it, muttering something like "_Please tell me you kept it, please tell me you kept it, please tell me you gave it back, I want it back._" He'd watched as Dean's fingers faltered over the zipper of another duffle bag, one that had been shoved way into the back of the trunk, before he huffed out a breath and pushed the bag back into place, zipper untouched. He avoids looking at the place where Dean's necklace should be. One night of Dean getting blackout drunk and spewing curses at the sky was enough.

He's noticed how Dean gets a faraway look in his eyes when he's stirring a pot of pasta on the stove, or hammering nails into the wall to put up a few more photo frames, or changing the bulb on his bedside lamp when it finally goes out. He looks shattered, most of the time, and he's realized that Dean can't even sit through a game of football without flinching and excusing himself for a few minutes. He always comes back, an apologetic smile on his face, but he can see the lines around his eyes that remind him of the ex-soldier he'd met on career day in school, so he changes the channel and settles on a cooing show that he doesn't even like but makes Dean relax a bit. Sometimes, though, Dean smiles a bit, and he likes those moments the best, because it means that he's remembering something happy, and those are the times he'll sit him down and say, "_I ever tell you about that time me and Sammy drove for miles to get to an Ozzy concert?_"

He's noticed how Dean's become a shadow of that man he'd once called 'the most awesome monster-hunter _ever_'. His smiles are strained, and his laughs aren't frequent enough. Dean's cracked, somewhere along the way, and he knows that he'll always be a bit rough around the edges. Sometimes, though, when Dean leans over during movie night and kisses mom with a soft smile, when he sits down and helps him with his algebra homework even as he's laughing at the groans of defeat he's met with, when he says his brother's name without needing a bottle of whiskey and a bout of broken sobbing; that's when he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Dean might not be so broken after all.

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><p><strong>AN Alright so. That was surprisingly less angsty than I expected it to turn out. Also, since when do I write happy hopeful endings?! Let me know what you thought in a review. :) **_~Sammy_


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